


Revisionist

by museme87



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/museme87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her first week as Rumpelstiltskin’s prisoner, Belle begins to reconsider what can be known from the pages of her books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revisionist

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot. Spoilers for 1.12 “Skin Deep”. I’ve considered making this a part of a series of one-shots taking place in the Dark Castle.

Belle’s not entirely convinced that this isn’t a dried pool of blood she’s attempting to scrub from the rug in the castle’s entry hall. The stain clings deep into the fibers of the scratchy carpet and an hour on her hands and knees with a stiff bristled brush has done little to loosen its hold. The only thing she’s accomplished is lifting some of the stain from rug to hand—her pale fingers now tinted dark pink—and working up a sweat. A bead falls between her heaving breasts as she sits back on her legs, the back of her hand pushing damp hair from her forehead. 

She reminds herself that this—being here, working for the protection of her people—is an act of bravery, but nowhere in her books can she recall bravery looking like this.

Sometimes her stories do take place in dark, far away castles, but the great authors she so admired failed to mention how the cold could run marrow deep. Her clothing does little to help, chest and arms exposed to frigid air—air so unlike that of her coastal town near Avonlea. In books, the heroes never wore dresses, were never women, and maybe that should have taught her a lesson. Instead, it only fueled her on. In trying to write her own story of heroism, she failed to understand the reality of her situation—that she was a noblewoman in a cumbersome dress who had never seen the world. There’s likely a reason why no one wrote stories like hers. Perhaps because the hero—unsuitably clothed—caught her death from a chill in a drafty castle, she thinks as her gaze travels around the hall. Belle has considered asking Rumpelstiltskin for something more practical to wear while she keeps his home but worries that he might ask for something in return. Having given him her life, she has little else to offer him and what remains comes at too high a price.

Not that he would ask. 

Of course, he _had_ asked others. Records of the Dark One and his infamous deals go back a very long time. She’s researched it— _him_ —back when her father considered him the only remaining solution to their great problem. The Dark One was known for torturing men, taking women, and stealing babes from the arms of their mothers. She believed every word of it, too. Or had. 

Now she’s uncertain because there is a stark contrast between the beast that lives in legend and her master. He’s not the evil she’d expected. A lesser evil, certainly. Yet, the flayed flesh of infants and quartered bodies of honorable men remain to be seen. The only real evidence of his evil lies before her, in a dried pool, and even then she can’t be sure it isn’t a far more innocent stain—one that is still going to take nothing short of dark magic to lift from this damnable rug. 

She returns the brush to the bucket of dirty water at her side. Pausing, Belle considers whether it’s truly worth devoting more time to this spot or better to move on. She’s the one who has set herself to this task, not Rumpelstiltskin. In fact, he would probably prefer the foreboding spot to remain for those times when an uninvited guest appears. Her purpose here is to clean, not to make this castle into a home. No matter how long she’s tied here by their deal, Belle knows it will never be that. 

Rising to her feet, the stiffness and aches in her knees make her wince. It’s become an all too familiar feeling these past few days, along with the rough patches of skin on her knuckles and soreness in the small of her back. She’s accustomed to some chores, though lady she may be; her maman believed that she should learn to keep her own room. However, that never required as much lifting, bending, and scrubbing as her new tasks demanded of her. Belle yearns to rest for a while on her bed at home, and the thought has her breath catching suddenly in her throat. 

She will _not_ cry.

Her lip pulls, trembles just briefly before she steels herself against it. She is _brave_. She did this for her people and refuses to mourn, to regret. If she’s to be a hero, she has to take pride in her decisions, knowing she did the honorable thing. Protecting the lives of those she loves is worth more than her old bed to her. It has to be. And it is. 

When she’s certain she can walk without collapsing in grief, she takes her bucket of soiled water by the thick rope handle and moves down the darkened corridor. She suspects it’s about time to prepare lunch, though a remarkable cook she is not—her hands still clumsy and tongue unsure. But there will be time to learn, she knows. A lifetime’s worth. 

She wonders if she won’t have to return to the dungeon first when she reaches the top of the staircase. While she knows she’s been getting little sleep, Belle doesn’t think she’s reached the point where she’s begun to see things. But there’s a patch of sunlight down the left corridor, something she’s never seen in this heavily draped castle. Having convinced herself that she’d never see day’s light again, Belle is certain it’s some sort of magic trick, yet she rushes toward it all the same. 

But it’s not magic, just a door that’s been left ajar—a sight as strange as sunlight in this place. She doesn’t hesitate to enter and only stops when she’s passed the ornate door. It’s a lovely room with a large hearth and tall, smudged and dirty windows. Belle is reminded of her mother’s rooms at home—the living area with an adjoined bedroom—and, indeed, she suspects that these rooms likely belonged to a lady of this castle long ago. 

There is a warmth present here that she hasn’t felt anywhere else in the Dark Castle. It could just be the sunlight, or maybe the color of the paper covering the walls—pinks and reds and gold. She isn’t certain what it is, but for the first time since stepping foot in this place she feels a bit like herself again. 

“Sneaking around, are we?”

Belle drops the bucket, startled by the impish voice behind her. The water splashes up the front of her gown, and she gives an undignified yelp in response. Angered, she rounds on Rumpelstiltskin, jaw set and nostrils flaring. 

“Don’t frighten me like that!”

At the rise of his brow, she knows she’s overstepped herself. And when she realizes she’s just scolded the Dark One like he was a child, her hand flies to cover her mouth in a panic. Belle can hardly believe that she lost herself like that, had let down her guard in this place with this beast. He’ll kill her for her outburst. He’s killed for less, she’s certain. 

“You’ve soiled my carpets, dearie,” he says, pointing to the puddle forming at the lip of the overturned bucket. “Our contract states that you are to _clean_ the Dark Castle, not make it worse.” 

With a flourish of his hand, Rumpelstiltskin dries her dress and the floor before moving to the center of the room. Belle’s stunned by the ease in which magic comes to him, how it can solve the simplest problems and yet can create so many. 

“Do it again and I’ll hang you in the courtyard and let the birds have your eyes for dinner like my last housekeeper,” he says, punctuating it with that unnerving, high-pitched giggle. 

“Is that another of your quips?” she asks. 

He looks at her with a mad kind of grin. “No, I’m quite serious.” 

Her expression falls, and she swallows hard. Belle wants to believe he’s toying with her again, but she hasn’t learned how to read him yet. 

“Lovely room, isn’t it?”

“S-sorry?”

She’s entranced by the way he gestures, as if his speech is entirely dependent on the movement of his hands. Every move is so grand, so theatrical that it’s difficult to believe he’s not putting on a performance for her. He only speaks about the contents of the room, yet it seems as if he’s telling her an epic tale of heroism and bravery. It has her completely bewildered. 

“And it’s gone unused for nearly a century now.” 

“That’s a pity,” she manages, her tongue leaden. “It’s beautiful.”

“Do you really think so?”

She hears it in his voice for the first time—curiosity. Belle doesn’t know what to think of it, how to respond to him. She’s just his housekeeper, which he’s made clear on numerous occasions. He can’t really want her opinion, yet he looks at her expectantly. Today is certainly a day of firsts. 

“Yes, I do.” 

He claps his hands together, pleased. “Good. I suspect you’ll want to spend some time cleaning in here then?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Are you expecting a guest?” 

When he steps toward her, she visibly flinches, his look too contemplative for her comfort. His thoughtfulness appears as if it could turn to anger at the drop of a pin, especially so when his hands meet and index fingers tap lightly on his lips. 

“There’s been a slight change in the terms of our contract.” 

Her heart pounds in her chest. “Oh?” 

“A small…oversight, if you will.” He pauses, and she suspects it’s for dramatic effect. “My dungeon. You currently occupy it. And while I have no use for it now—present company excluded—I suspect the need will arise eventually. When it does, my prisoner will likely be more threatening than a maid such as yourself.” 

“You’re…giving me these rooms?” she asks, cautious so as to not seem hopeful. 

“I don’t give gifts, dearie. I make deals.” 

She’s come to hate that word; it’s cost her so much. Belle wonders whether he makes so-called deals to ease his conscience, whether giving people a choice allows him to sleep better at night. His price is always set too high, and his trades are made with people who have met with unfortunate circumstance. Like her father. Like her. 

“What will it cost me?”

“Nothing but a simple promise, if such a thing can ever be simple.” He looks at her, eyes hard. “You may have these rooms as your own with the promise that you keep the mirrors covered.”

“The mirrors?” she says, suppressing an amused smile. 

“Indeed. Now your word, dearie.” 

“Of course. If that’s all you want, you have my word.” 

And it’s only after she agrees that she wonders if she hasn’t signed away something more. The request now strikes her as too simple. Rumpelstiltskin is known for using slippery words to get what he wants. Is there something about the mirrors that she never considered? As he passes her to leave, she knows this may be her only chance to ask.

“May I ask why?”

He leans close to her, expression playful in that manic way of his. “Because a looking glass is never just a looking glass.”

She’s not sure what he means, and that only has her more curious. She wishes for her library back home where she might sit for the rest of the day, uncovering the secrets of looking glasses—a once mundane thing turned fascinating. She’s not back home, though. And she has no access to a library here nor the free time she once had. There are chores to be done, food to prepare. 

“I’ll put together lunch,” she says. “And see to the storage room after.” 

“The storage room can wait. See to these rooms first. I want you out of my dungeon tonight.” 

He acts as if she has things to move, as if she would want to spend another night in that dank and comfortless place. If he were anyone else, she’d tell him just that, cut him down for putting her there in the first place. But he’s not anyone else, he’s the Dark One, so she grapples for some way to appropriately respond. 

The silence holds for too long, she realizes, when Rumpelstiltskin stops just short of the threshold. She should have simply thanked him, disingenuous as that thank-you may have been. But she always was _unyielding_ —her maman’s word for her—especially when she knew she was in the right. And this—thanking her captor—is certainly something she refuses to do.

As he turns toward her, Belle considers that this may be her last act of defiance. His wild hair darkens his eyes, rendering them unreadable, and it frightens her that she’s unsure what’s to come. Perhaps what frightens her even more, though, is his stillness. 

“After lunch, I’ll see that you have wood in the cupboard across the corridor for a fire. I imagine you would like to be warm.”

It’s her turn, then, to be still. She’s never heard him speak like that, sound so… _human_. It baffles her, and she wonders what’s caused the change in his tone. In the silence, their eyes meet. What lies beyond that gaze is uncertain, but she can see that he’s waiting patiently for any sign of life from her. All that she can manage is a nod, yet that seems to be enough for him. He returns it and leaves her.

What this was about only hits her after he’s left, as she lifts the dust cloth from a cushioned chair. The knowledge paralyzes her. Because he could simply order her from his dungeon whenever he liked, she assumed her deal with him must serve some greater purpose. Never had she expected this to be about kindness, though. But as she considers that unreadable expression in his eyes, the surprising humanity in his normally otherworldly voice, her heart knows it to be true. She’s in these rooms for no other reason than that, and it surprises her more than any dark deal ever could because the beast painted in her books never cared about the warmth and comfort of a young woman.


End file.
